


Sway

by FrancesHouseman



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, First Time, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 16:38:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancesHouseman/pseuds/FrancesHouseman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set between 8x20 and 8x21. Dean wants to celebrate the Battle of Kingdoms with a drink. </p>
<p>Drinking whisky is never a good idea for Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sway

_“It's just that demon life has got you in its sway”_

_\- The Rolling Stones "Sway"_

 

Sam hardly ever drinks whisky. He hardly ever drinks whisky because he doesn’t like to lose control, or, more accurately, because he is terrified to lose control of himself. Beer is different. He enjoys the happy fuzzy feeling of sharing a few with Dean, leaning against the Impala after a hunt or goofing around in their motel. He likes the easy relaxation of a beer or two (never more than three). He knows where he is with beer; can feel it seeping in and limit himself accordingly. Whisky however, whisky hits him in the gut. It runs straight into his blood, his treacherous heart pumping it directly to his head, poisoning his ability to self limit. When Sam drinks whisky it is usually because Dean insists. Sometimes Dean spikes his beer.

 

Sam isn’t a control freak in the usual sense. Since Stanford Sam has fallen in with destiny. Sometimes he likes to go with the flow to the point of fatalism. It’s usually Dean who rages about fate and free will these days. Most of the time Sam couldn’t really care.

 

When it comes to Sam’s emotions and thoughts he is a complete control freak. They stayed locked inside, clamped down, and people only see what Sam wants them to see. Even Dean. Especially Dean. Sam has a very expressive face. Jess used to say it was rubber because of the acrobatics he could perform. Sam can communicate whole sentences with a particular twist of his mouth and halt conversations just by tightening the muscles around his face to express disapproval, like an angry horse flattening its ears back. There is a high level encryption filter between Sam’s brain and the messages he sends with his expressions, very deliberate, each manipulation careful and intentional. Whisky messes it all up.

 

If Sam really goes to town on the whisky then he also loses control of his mouth. The effect is like an avalanche where his most private thoughts come pouring out. It has only happened once, with Dean, unsurprisingly. Sam feels that, were there an interested God, he should have been gifted with the ability to forget this. As he understands it, that’s what happens to other people when they’re completely shit faced. He wonders how drunk Dean had been and how much he remembers. It’s not really like he can ask.

 

****

 

The first time Sam drank whisky he was fifteen and Dean made him do it. Well, actually Sam hadn’t protested too much but Dean was definitely a _bad influence_. Dean was a total bastard because he got Sam wobbly drunk and then quizzed him about the girls at his current school: How far had Sam been with a girl? ( _just kissing_ ) What was Sam’s type? ( _older girls_ ) Big tits? ( _no_ ) Little tits? ( _yeah, he guessed_ ) Blondes? ( _brunettes, preferably short_ ) Bit curvy? ( _he preferred muscular_ ) Long legs? ( _sure_ ) Had he seen any lesbian porn? ( _why would he want to see lesbian porn?_ ) Sam had blushed and squirmed prettily, to Dean’s delight because that was the whole point, and things were okay until Dean got him a bit drunker and asked if Sam ever thought about guys.

 

At fifteen Sam had already been an expert at self control. Sure, there were certain things you just can’t control at fifteen (and can’t really control ever): blushing, inappropriate erections, that kind of thing. Everything that Sam could control was on a tight leash. He hadn’t known about the effects of whisky though, how could he? His face gave him away to Dean before he realized he was doing it. Dean’s eyes had widened and he had seemed pleased. There had been something else too, maybe trepidation, maybe something a little darker in Dean’s reaction. He had said, “Who Sammy?” and God help him, Sam gave him his answer because it had been written all over Sam’s face, which had flamed scarlet. And Dean was such a mean shitty bastard because he had held Sam down by his forearms when he tried to escape and repeated, “Who Sam? _Tell me who_ ,” as if he didn’t already know, and Sam’s face had turned deep deep red and an actual tear or two had burned a path down his cheeks, he had been so ashamed.

 

****

 

Sam was a quick learner. He drank whisky again with Dean because it was expected of him but he never drank much, either refusing it or surreptitiously tipping it away or into Dean’s drink when Dean wouldn’t take no for an answer.

 

Sam didn’t get drunk on whisky again until Dean was going to hell. For Sam. They had started drinking and Sam hadn’t had the inclination to stop, half hoping that they would both just die from alcohol poisoning and wake up wherever _together_. They had relived their best moments, their scariest moments and Dean had confessed to various things from stealing Dad’s cigarettes to giving blowjobs for cash when he was seventeen, like Sam was a priest. Like Sam could purify his soul. Sam was sad and angry for them both. He knew where the money had gone: school books for Sammy, food for Sammy, practically any whim Sammy had, because Dean had never been able to refuse. They were silent for a while then, still drinking, each brother lost in his own thoughts.

 

“I don’t want to die,” Dean had said, quietly, “I don’t want to die and leave you Sammy,” and Sam had crumbled completely, weeping helplessly. It was like Sam’s soul was the one being purged. He had felt like he was made up of pure pain that would go on forever because _Dean was going to die._ Dean must have held him, Sam had been so drunk and distraught that he never knew how they ended up clinging to each other on Sam’s bed, Sam sobbing into Dean’s shirt collar. He does remember the things he sobbed into his brother’s neck though because that was the time his mind to mouth functionality broke. _Love you Dean Love you so much No use for girls Only you Love you Love you Love you Dean Don’t die Please Can’t live without you Dean please PLEASE_ and Sam had looked in to Dean’s face to beg him for… well, he didn’t know what really, and Dean had been crying too, and they had kissed, all wet and salty, crying into each other really, but it had calmed Sam eventually. They had fallen asleep like that; passed out really.

 

In the morning there had been three whisky stains on the carpet: two from their overturned plastic tumblers and one from the remains of a bottle, and the motel room had reeked. Sam hadn’t given the smallest shit because his world had been ending.

 

****

 

There had been demon blood when Dean was gone. Sam was bringing hell topside if he couldn’t get down there, to Dean. And when Dean came back Sam had let him see just how he felt, no whisky required, but Sam had been too far gone by that point to kick the blood habit, and Dean had brought a bit of his own hell back too.

 

****

 

Dean had done plenty of drinking since Bobby passed, more than enough for both of them. Sam had a few now and then, sometimes enough for the jealousy to show in his face when Dean went off and lost himself in some other warm body. Dean was always too far ahead of him down the path to drunkenness, and too caught up in some pretty girl, to notice.

 

****

 

Closing the gates to hell made Sam weak. He started to think that it would kill him after the hell hound, and then, after Bobby’s soul had winged its way off to Heaven, he had been sure of it. Dean was strong when Sam was weak because that’s how it seemed to go between them, and Sam hung his life around Dean’s neck, trusting him implicitly. Sam wished that Dean could trust him too. The weaker he became, the more he dwelled on all the terrible things he had done to Dean to lose his brother’s trust.  There had been Ruby and the demon blood. Deliberately turning into a demon… yeah, that had been a pretty shitty thing to do to Dean. More recently Sam had left his brother in Purgatory. Who leaves their brother to rot in Purgatory? Not only had he failed to rescue Dean, he hadn’t even looked for him. Sam could never tell Dean that he had been insanely jealous of Castiel. They had disappeared together with their special _bond-of-trust_ , and it had made Sam want to die because he wanted Dean’s trust all for himself and he had lost it, all by himself, with nobody else but himself to blame. It was no excuse though. Sam had cut hunting, and therefore cut Dean, out of his life for the second time. As if the first hadn’t been bad enough.

 

Sam thinks his biggest betrayal had been leaving for Stanford in the first place, not for a few years to get an education, but for good. He had left for a life that Dean could never have been part of and Dean had forgiven him; turned the other cheek and continued to do so, but the trust had eroded and now it was gone.

 

Dean had never left Sam. He had resurrected Sam at the cost of his own soul. He had dragged him back from demonhood kicking and screaming. He had refused his destiny as the ultimate Weapon of Heaven for Sam, and Sam knows that Dean has forced himself to keep going for Sam at least twice, once after Dad died and more recently after Bobby, when it was clear that he just wanted to give up. Dean had kept going for Sam and now Sam was going to die and let him down all over again.

 

****

 

Sam’s alcohol tolerance has gone to hell with the trials. He feels light headed and muzzy all the time and Dean, despite his winning heroic qualities, is still and, Sam thinks, always will be, a _bad influence_ on Sam. He insists on a drink the evening after they have been playing Braveheart with Charlie, and they’re both in rare good humor. _C’mon Sammy,_ Dean says, _just the one won’t hurt,_ and of course it has to be whisky. Sam is drunk before he even finishes the first glass. They drink three more.  Sam would have stopped at one but the truth is that the whisky makes him feel good. Sure, he feels drunk but it’s a nice buzzy drunk, and it makes him forget about the trials, masking their effects on his body. He resolves to stay quiet.

 

Three glasses of whisky is pretty much the equivalent of an after-the-job beer for Dean these days, so Sam shouldn’t really be surprised when he leaps up and announces that he needs a shower, pizza, and a B-movie in that order. “No Dean don’ go,” Sam calls because it suddenly seems vitally important to Sam that he should keep Dean close. “Can’ gettup, pleeease Dean.” Dean looks exasperated but amused. “Stay’ere. Please?”

 

“Sure Sammy, okay.” Dean gives him one of his special fond smiles but then goes and spoils it by sitting on Sam’s legs, which really hurts, and laughs at him when he yelps. “Lightweight,” he snickers.

 

Resting his legs in Dean’s lap is much more pleasant and Sam hums and closes his eyes. Dean tickles his toes but the alcohol kills the panic that Sam would usually feel and he squirms a bit, smiling. He feels really good, for the first time in ages. A bit too good in fact. He tries to shift his feet and raise his knees. He might be drunk but he still has the presence of mind to hide his hard on from Dean. At least, he tries to but Dean makes a victorious whoop, pins his feet and tickles more. Sam almost covers his crotch with his hands but stops himself just in time because that would be like a neon sign pointing out his arousal to Dean. Dean is going to notice any minute now anyway.

 

Dean continues not to notice and Sam’s tickling session morphs into a footrub. Neither of them speak for a while and Sam’s mind is sluggish and confused. Why is Dean so quiet? And why can Sam maintain an iron erection when whisky is renowned for preventing it? He knows that he has to move, that he is one sick puppy, and taking pleasure like this without Dean’s knowledge makes him feel a bit dirty. But it’s so, so good and he’s going to move away, in a moment. He’s just going to keep his eyes closed and enjoy it for a while.

 

Dean stops moving his fingers and Sam reluctantly cracks an eye open. The room seems very bright. Dean is watching his face with dark eyes and an amused look, “Really like having your feet rubbed eh Sammy?” he asks and Sam claps both hands over his face. Busted. He rolls sideways off the couch and the world continues to roll after he lands. “Woah! Okay there Sam, careful,” Dean crouches over him, has him by the shoulders and pulls him into a sitting position on the floor.

 

Sam sits very still and the room stops spinning. “Happens to the best of us Sammy,” Dean says, “No big deal.”

 

Sam says nothing and after a while Dean sighs and started to get up. “No!” Sam grabs his arm, then his other and, in a gargantuan effort, heaves himself up to sit on the couch. Dean stays. “There might only be weeks,” Sam says in a small voice, falling back into the corner, “Days, Dean, we might only have _days_. I might only have _days_ with you.”

 

“H’okay sugar, I think you’ve had a bit too much of the happy sauce.” Dean tries to pull him up but Sam is having none of it.

 

“Everything all this time, you, me, nothing else. Dean. I swore I’d never… but doesn’t make any diff’rence now…”

 

“Sam? Hello? You’re smashed,” and Dean looks mildly panicked now, “C’mon man, you’re gonna feel stupid in the morning,” but Sam keeps right on talking.

 

“…already let you down so many times, what’s one more time Dean? S’my whole life. My _whole life_. Most important thing and I can’t…” he sucks back a sob “…can’t die without you knowing… ‘splain some things pro’bly.”

 

“Oh Sam.” Dean’s watching him now, no longer panicked but looking sad, biting his bottom lip.

 

“You’re my whole life Dean I love you.” God, his face is so hot and the tears are coming, “And I know s’not right ‘cause you’re my brother. I mean, brothers love each other but I…” and the first tears escape to cool his cheeks, which are _on fire_ , “… I want you how I shouldn’t want you. I want to have fucking sex with you man…”

 

Dean has closed his eyes. He is biting both lips together now and looks to be in pain. It’s too late to take it back though. Sam has to explain it as well as he can, now. Dean is going to freak out and resent him for it, but Sam wants to make sure it’s for the right reasons.

 

“S’always been you Dean, just you. When the other kids played kiss chase I wanted to kiss _you_. Wanted you so bad but you’re always with chicks, loads of chicks, all the macho bullshit, wished I was a girl for so long, thought maybe we could be together, you know, like that,” he tries to laugh but it comes out as a sob, “Until I was fucking _eighteen_ Dean, and when I realized we couldn’t…”

 

Dean’s crying. That’s not right. Why is Dean crying? He has fucked this up; fucked Dean up.

 

“Sorry Dean. So Sorry,” Sam whispers. He can’t fix this but he desperately wants Dean to look at him, smile at him. He pushes Dean’s arm, “But s’your fault too. So fucking hot.” But it’s a lame attempt and it seems that Dean has stopped listening, eyes closed, like one of those crying statues minus the blood.

 

“Fucking beautiful,” Sam whispers. He would get up but he doesn’t think he can really move, sprawled back in the corner of the couch. He knows about whisky. Why the fuck has he drunk whisky with Dean? Death is going to be a mercy he didn’t deserve. Maybe Dean will be okay with Sam dying after this. Maybe Sam can die a hero’s death and redeem himself slightly in his brother’s eyes.  He hopes so. The rest of the world can go to hell.

 

Now would be a great time to shut up but his mind to mouth filter has gone completely, apparently. “You’ve looked after me all my life Dean, m’so lucky, been so close to you and… every minute man. Every minute s’like heaven. Sorry.” Sam closes his eyes too.

 

He drifts off like that. He’s aware of Dean’s arm around him, dragging him staggering into his bed. There’s a soft brush of hair from his forehead and a kiss, just above his brow, which can’t be right. Sam thinks vaguely that it’s nice that his dreams seemed to have changed after all the nightmares but it’s a shame it has to happen so close to the end of his life.

 

****

 

Sam wakes up with a killer hangover. He takes half a minute to fight the nausea before lurching out of bed and zigzagging his way to the bathroom. He isn’t going to make it, tripping over his own legs, but then Dean is there, holding him up and holding his hair back as his stomach belatedly tries to empty out the evil drink and everything else he has eaten for about a month. It takes ages but he feels a little better. Then he remembers all the things he said to Dean the night before and he’s dry heaving again. It doesn’t get much worse than this.

 

Dean gets him back in bed and Sam tries to think through the pounding in his head. _Sorry_ isn’t really going to cut it but it’s a start. “Sorry,” he mumbles. Dean just grunts and sits beside him on the bed.

 

“You really can’t hold your drink can you?” Dean asks. “Is it the other thing as well Sammy or are you really that lame?”

 

“Yeah, don’t think I’m usually this bad.” Sam’s pretty sure that this hangover is of the supernatural variety and induced by the ritual because nobody would ever get drunk on whisky if this is the payment due. “Pretty lame too though,” he adds with a weak smile. _Please smile back Dean,_ he thinks, and Dean does, for a moment, God love him.

 

Sam’s heart twists in his chest and he opens his mouth to say something that starts with, _Look, about last night…_ but Dean cuts him off. “It’s not just you Sammy,” he says, and Sam closes his mouth with a snap.

 

“Thought I was so sick,” Dean’s voice is gruff and his head is bowed, “wanting to… wanting my kid brother. I tried to keep you safe from it. Thought I was being a martyr or something.” He looks up and Sam sees that he’s scared and that he’s earnest and it’s the most adorable thing he’s ever seen. He hardly dares move in case it’s not real, in case he’s misunderstanding something, but there’s happiness swelling in his chest prematurely. He tries to push it down and concentrate on what Dean’s telling him.

 

“I got it wrong, Sam. You’ve needed me too and I kind of knew but couldn’t let myself believe…” he tilts his head, assessing Sam. Sam imagines how he looks and cringes. “You remember, before the hell hound? I kissed you Sammy. I thought you forgot but maybe you didn’t.”

 

“Wow,” Sam doesn’t know what else to say. He feels like a dying man who has just won the lottery, no kids to leave it all to.

 

“I just wanted you to have a shot at being normal,” Dean says, so seriously, and Sam has to laugh at that because _hello? Freak here!_ but Dean ignores him, “And then later I was just too chicken. Told myself that I was protecting you but half the time you were protecting me.” He smirks a little then, and Sam feels it all the way to his toes, “We’ve been torturing each other Sammy,” he says, “More than we even meant to,” and he shakes his head in disbelief. Sam knows the feeling.

 

_What now?_ Sam’s head is pounding again, like something is trying to get out. _What now Dean? WHAT NOW?_

“So anyway,” Dean’s getting up and _leaving_ , “I didn’t want you to stew about it or something.” He gives Sam that fond smile again from the doorway, the one that used to be followed by a ruffle of Sam’s hair. “Try and sleep it off.” He points to the water and painkillers beside the bed and then he’s gone.

 

****

 

It’s well into evening before Sam has shaken off the hangover from hell. He showers, puts on some fresh clothes and goes hunting for Dean. He would really really like one of those Dean burger sandwich things and he’s prepared to go unashamedly puppy dog faced to get it. There’s the heavy fatigue and wooziness through his body from the demon trials but Sam’s feeling floaty and high from Dean’s confession too. He has been telling himself over and over that _Dean wants him back_. All things considered, today’s a good day in Sam’s book.

 

Dean’s way ahead of him. There’s pasta and meatballs and Sam’s stomach growls audibly and clenches. Sam hopes he can enjoy the food and keep it down. “Sit,” Dean says and there’s instant food in front of him.

 

“Wow.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Dean’s got this smug look like he’s just won a James Dean lookalike competition or something. The food’s really good and Sam thinks it will stay put.

 

Dean wants to talk about possibilities for the third trial, so they run through everything they can think of but there’s just no way of knowing for sure without interpreting the lost tablet. Sam looks for hints of a change in Dean; some indication that things have changed between them, but he can’t find anything besides the one-track safe conversation.

 

Eventually, inevitably, silence falls between them and Sam’s pulse picks up until he can feel it in his throat. Dean stands and looks down at him. His eyes are darker and he moistens his lips like Sam’s for dessert, “C’mere Sammy,” he purrs and hauls Sam’s lips up to his own, hands in his collar.

 

Dean’s really good at kissing, of course he is, and Sam is pliant, needy and open. It feels so strange being taller than Dean though, like Sam has only just comprehended the height difference. He feels like they’ve done this before: Dean’s taste and smell is so familiar and they seem to instinctively know how to move together, but the height difference feels all wrong, as though Sam should be the shorter one. But then Sam takes over the kiss and it feels completely right. Dean hums a pleased noise into his mouth and lets himself go.

 

Dean pushes Sam away after not nearly long enough and says, “My bed,” in the same daddy-lion voice, and Sam kind of gets why the ladies like him so much.

 

“Why yours?” Sam doesn’t know why he’s arguing. Because Dean’s his brother perhaps.

 

“Because, bunny boy, you spent all morning throwing up. And besides, _memory foam_ , remember?”

 

****

 

Sam can’t hide the shudders that course through his body when he lies on Dean’s bed. Dean lies next to him and holds him until they subside. “Shit,” Dean says eloquently.

 

“Look Sam, do you want a drink?” Dean’s looking at a bottle of whisky sitting on his desk. Sam’s stomach twists at the idea, last night’s hangover only now becoming a memory. Dean’s got to be kidding.

 

“You trying to kill me or something?”

 

“It’s just… It seemed to help, yesterday. Made you feel good Sammy.”

 

Dean isn’t trying to kill him. He’s trying to make Sam feel good, by questionable methods, no doubt, but Sam imagines letting the whisky slip into his veins and letting Dean take care of him. “Yeah,” he says, “Yeah okay Dean,” and Dean fetches the bottle.

 

If the trials kill him then there won’t be a time when Sam can do this without the sickness creeping in his bones. He’s waited too damn long to be with Dean like this; believed he’d never have the chance. Sam will take whatever he can get and make the best of it. He takes a long pull of whisky straight from the bottle and feels it burn its way into his poor abused stomach. It’s quick to go to his head. He feels it buzzing its way into his extremities, taking over from the sickness of the trials. It feels good. He smiles widely at Dean, “You’re such a bad influence.”

 

“Yeah okay, and you’re what? Sixteen now?” Dean’s assessing him but he looks pleased.

 

“Fifteen actually,” Sam says.

 

“Fif… _Oh_.” It seems that Dean remembers that too and Sam thinks that perhaps that evening makes a lot more sense now. So much wasted time between them. He goes to take another swig but Dean snags the bottle and puts it aside. He holds Sam’s forearms down, much the same as he had done then, but this time he kisses Sam on the mouth very deliberately.

 

They make out for a while, Dean’s hands all over him, big flat palms and strong fingers touching every part of his body. He undresses Sam purposefully, eyes dark and intent watching his face. Sam feels like the heroine from a Victorian novel and thinks he understands swooning now. He does his best with Dean’s clothes too, and Dean helps. Dean’s cock is beautiful, curving upwards towards his belly as he braces himself over Sam. They kiss and Dean lines their cocks up together, moving his hips around so that they slide together with precome. It’s the most delicious feeling that Sam has ever felt and he moans into Dean’s mouth so that he knows.

 

“Yeah, got you Sammy, gonna take good care of you,” and Dean’s going down on him, his mouth warm wet and so hot when he puts it around Sam’s cock. Sam tries to push up but Dean holds him down and works him with his mouth. The room is tilting a little but Sam doesn’t care. He wants to languish here forever with Dean’s hands, mouth, body all over him.

 

The familiar build of an orgasm starts in Sam’s abdomen and he pushes urgently at Dean’s head, making him stop. “Not yours properly until you’ve fucked me Dean,” he explains and he sees the control slip from Dean’s face for a moment as his cock twitches and leaks, a drip that falls on Sam’s belly. Sam swipes his finger through it slowly and sucks it into his mouth, keeping his eyes on Dean’s the whole time.

 

“Oh Sam.” Dean’s voice is rough and low. His eyes are impossibly dark and he looks dangerous and so damn sexy, focused intently on Sam. There’s lube in the drawer next to Dean’s bed. Of course there is. Dean treats him so gently and Sam wriggles and pushes back onto his fingers because he’s not going to break damnit, but Dean just hushes him and takes his time.

 

Time does funny things for a while and Sam loses track. Dean has two fingers inside him, slick and easy because they’ve been playing there for a while. Then there are three fingers and Sam writhes and bucks, cock slapping against his belly until Dean holds him, tugging gently now and then but not enough. Sam thinks that he will tell Dean to get a move on. He’s going to start insisting soon because Dean is blowing his mind and melting his brain with that dark stare that is trained on Sam while he falls apart all over his brother’s hand, and it seems that Dean really is trying to kill him with whisky and pleasure.

 

When he can’t take any more Sam sobs, “Take me Dean,” and if he sounds like an nineteenth century lady then it’s all down to the whisky and not really his fault.

 

Dean doesn’t comment though, just does as he’s told, shifting position slightly and sliding home. Home. God. Dean is _inside him_ and they’re both home. They lie still for a moment while Sam adjusts and then move together intuitively, slowly at first and building up. Dean has his hands round his shoulders from the back, elbows on the bed and his hips grind, thrust, rotate expertly. His forehead is on Sam’s chest and Sam can feel the pleasure building in Dean’s body as though it’s his own. His cock is trapped between them, sliding against the hair on Dean’s belly and it’s almost enough to make him come. “Harder Dean,” he pants, wanting it to last but unable to resist chasing the orgasm that’s coming soon, just out of reach.

 

Dean is relentless though and completely controlled. He looks up at Sam and keeps looking, and that look alone notches up Sam’s arousal by another two or three. Dean tilts the angle slightly and God, Sam’s dying, but he doesn’t move faster, just keeps Sam pinned, thrusting, grinding and Sam’s nearly there, so close. “Mine now Sammy,” Dean growls and Sam cries out, coming all undone, body clamping down and spasming helplessly, setting Dean off too. Sam comes so hard, Dean’s face pressed into his chest, the raw noises Dean makes reverberating all through Sam’s body, and Sam’s vision narrows right down.

 

They’re both shaky for a while afterwards, Dean serious for once. Sam would worry that he’s broken him but Dean’s clearly happy as well, and Sam thinks that this is something Dean doesn’t let himself be: just Dean without the need for the jokes or the front. Just Dean with Sam. He resolves to do this to Dean as often as possible.

 

Dean is Sam’s heaven, no two ways about it. “We’re soul mates Dean,” he slurs happily, “Gonna be in heaven together. Together forever.”

 

Dean bites his earlobe. “Drunkard.”

 

****

 

Sam really wants to live through these trials. He wants to show Dean a thing or two about what he’s wanted to do with him for the past _fifteen years_. For now though, if whisky’s what it takes to have Dean like this, well, he’s going to need some serious rehabilitation if he survives. He wonders if Cas can heal Dean’s liver, and lets himself imagine happily ever after with no drink involved… but Dean is rolling him over again, distracting him, kissing his lower back with that wicked mouth of his, and Sam goes with it. It feels so good.


End file.
